Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (17 page)

But Franck, staring down as he hurried, never saw us. Cutting across the lawn, he continued south.

We waited a few minutes before following him.

Two blocks south, he entered another apartment building. A whole different world from Franck's dump; this one was thirties Spanish architecture, immaculate upkeep, thoughtful landscaping. The right side of the building was a wide veranda arranged with wrought-iron furniture. Real estate ads would call the place charming and, for once, they wouldn't be lying.

We didn't sit long before Franck was out again, arm in arm with a petite dark-haired girl in jeans and a Brown sweatshirt.

Milo said, "Obviously, she went to Columbia."

Franck and the girl faced, pecked lips. Strolling to the veranda, they pushed a love seat toward the shadows, settled, held hands, kissed some more. The girl's head rested on Franck's shoulder.

Milo said, "Now I feel like a voyeur. And now it is fish-and-chips."

The pub was gone, replaced by half a storefront peddling vintage jeans, another serving fast-food Thai.

"Time to be geographically eclectic," he said. "What can I get you?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't think your discretion will shame me into fasting."

I idled by the curb as he loped into the Thai place. Something he told the counter girl made her smile. He got back in the car with bags full of takeout.

"Double order of
pad
to go, just in case you change your mind. Extra spice, extra shrimp, extra everything she could think of."

I cruised west on the 210 as he wielded a plastic fork and gobbled.

When he stopped to breathe, I said, "The daisy chain continues."

He wiped his mouth. "Meaning?"

"Another helpful witness. Winterthorn punted you to Hauer, Hauer to Fidella, now Franck gives you a twofer: Fidella and Martin Mendoza."

He flicked the prong of the fork. "Let's hear it for upright citizens doing their duty. Maybe two votes for Sal should put him square on my radar. If he did find out Elise was cutting him off sexually and financially, we're talking big-time hurt feelings. Which puts me right back where I started: the so-called boyfriend."

He poked noodles, wrapped up the bulk of the Thai food and bagged it.

"Not good?" I said.

"Good enough."

He appeared to doze off, but a few miles later, without opening his eyes, he said, "As far as young Master Mendoza with the temper, he's Latino, meaning he might know Spanish. Meaning he'd find it easy enough to pay Mr. Anteater for buying ice. On the other hand, murder's a pretty strong reaction to being tutored against your will and according to Franck, Mendoza had stopped showing up at Elise's place."

I said, "For tutoring."

His lids rose. "She was doing him, too?"

"Another younger man."

"Oh, boy... but with a young offender, something sexual gone bad, I'd expect disorganization, overkill. This was just the opposite, Alex. Antiseptic, staged. It doesn't feel right."

"It doesn't, unless Martin's one of those long-simmering types."

He called in an AutoTrack on Martin Mendoza. Plenty of registered drivers with that name but none in the age range. Same for a criminal record.

"Kid doesn't even have a license. Must love watching rich kids zoom into the student parking lot. Okay, gotta find him."

I said, "His father works at one of the country clubs. That narrows it down a bit."

"Hell with that." He bared teeth. "It's back-to-school for Uncle Milo."

CHAPTER
20

The Hotel Bel-Air sits on twelve of the most expensive acres on the planet, sharing precious dirt with eight-figure estates. No sidewalks in Old Bel Air discourages pedestrian riffraff. So do high walls and gates, closed-circuit cameras, guard dogs, and rent-a-cops.

Try building a hotel in Old Bel Air today and the
Not-in-my-backyard
roar will set off sonic booms. But when the foreign potentate who purchased the property several years ago proposed to convert the hotel to his private Xanadu, the avalanche of neighborly rage caused him to fly back home and become an absentee innkeeper.

Time can rot but it can also lay on patina, and people learn to love what they're used to. That, it occurred to me, might explain the pride north-of-Sunset Brentwood takes in hosting Windsor Preparatory Academy's sixteen-acre campus. A core belief in the value of education isn't the reason; the merest suggestion of constructing a public school in the district can bring down a city councilman.

Prep occupies a remote pocket of Brentwood, at the end of a northern cul-de-sac. No signage advertises its presence. A thousand feet of two-way, cobbled drive heralded by fifteen-foot gateposts winds its way toward a guardhouse equipped with a yardarm. Beyond the barrier, a generous roundabout leads to baroque iron gates offering a glimpse of the rarefied world beyond.

Sixteen acres is ample space, per the school's website, for a dozen buildings
fashioned in classic Monterey Colonial style
, an Olympic pool, an indoor gym complete with yoga room and full-court basketball, a regulation football field, ditto baseball diamond. The nine-hole golf course is a recent addition in response to
student interest.
Even with all that,
when season and air quality permit, expansive lawns and drought-tolerant plantings provide the opportunity for outdoor seminars, or simply for gaining an appreciation of environmental integrity during moments of contemplation.

The Prep day begins at eight thirty a.m. By eight, Milo and I were watching the motor traffic that streamed in and out of the entry road. Long queue but well mannered, no one fussing. The slow pace gave us plenty of time to scan vehicles for the face that matched Martin Mendoza's MySpace page.

It also allowed drivers and passengers to study us, but Milo didn't seem to care.

Mendoza's social networking seemed halfhearted: some underplayed baseball triumph, no list of friends, not a word on the career-killing injury. The few photos provided depicted a tall, husky, dark-eyed, crew-cut boy with muscular shoulders, thick eyebrows, and full, downturned lips. Even while posing with a middle school MVP trophy Martin Mendoza came across grim.

Milo read the printout for the third time, pocketed it just as a flame-red Infiniti slid past the gateposts. A silver Lincoln Navigator took its place. Teenage girl in the passenger seat. She rolled down her window, smiled saucily.

Milo smiled back.

The woman at the wheel said, "Close it, Lisa." Fed the Navigator gas and lurched out of view.

I said, "Let me guess: After sleeping on it, you decided on a new phase in the investigation. To hell with the chief."

He worked his tongue inside his cheek. "Me an insurgent? Perish."

The next car was a white Jaguar. Hispanic kid in the passenger seat, but not Mendoza. Diplomatic plates. Uniformed driver.

Nearly all the older students drove themselves. The younger kids were chauffeured by attractive, sharp-jawed women and preoccupied men gabbing illegally on cell phones. Being driven appeared to turn them sullen.

One of the most morose riders looked closer to senior than freshman, a skinny, red-haired boy pressed to the passenger door of a bronze Lexus LX. Resting his chin on a bony fist and staring into nothingness.

Bubble-coiffed strawberry blonde at the wheel.

Noticing us shook the boy out of his torpor. He studied us. Kept staring until the Lexus rolled out of sight.

I said, "Carrot Top seemed to know you."

"Don't know him, but I do know his mommy."

"Mrs. Chief and the vaunted Charlie."

He sighed.

I said, "He looked a little down."

"Would you want Him for your dad?"

"Touche."

"Maybe he'll be happier when he's in New Haven warbling the Whiffenpoof Song."

"How do you know about stuff like that?"

"Been reading up on the Ivy League. A little cultural anthropology never hurt."

"What'd you learn?"

"That I'd never have gotten in."

A navy Bentley Continental rolled up. Pretty black girl staring straight ahead and chewing gum energetically, gigantic dad at the wheel wearing a white tracksuit. Several seasons since he'd performed buzzer-beaters for the Lakers.

"Whole different world here," said Milo, rubbing his face. "C'mon, Marty, show yourself."

By eighty forty-two, the last car had passed through, with no sign of Martin Mendoza.

Milo said, "Onward," and we continued on foot. The cobblestone was smooth under my shoes, as if someone had hand-polished every inch. Monumental Chinese elms flanked the drive, creating a shady allee. As we got closer, smidges of youthful vocalization filtered from behind the school's facade, but the rustle of leaves in the breeze was louder.

Rounding a curve exposed the guardhouse. Two people walked toward us.

Woman in a black pantsuit speeding several steps in front of a large man in a khaki uniform.

Headmaster Mary Jane Rollins said, "Oh, it's you," in a flat voice. "I've just fielded a storm of complaints."

The guard remained behind her, hands folded on his buckle. Midsixties, beefy and ruddy, with piercing blue cop eyes that transcended retirement. Flashlight and walkie-talkie on his belt, no gun. A brass name tag read
Walkowicz.
Rollins's back to him gave him the courage to wink at us.

Milo said, "Complaints about what, Doctor?"

"Two men lurking at the entrance," said Rollins. "Needless to say, parents were alarmed."

"Never been called a lurker, Doctor."

"I fail to find humor in the situation, Lieutenant."

"Sorry about the inconvenience, Doctor. Luckily for everyone concerned, we're here to protect and serve."

Walkowicz grinned.

Mary Jane Rollins said, "Given the tense world we live in--now exacerbated by Ms. Freeman's death--upsetting our students is the last thing we needed this morning. They've barely achieved closure."

"About Ms. Freeman's death?"

"We've held two Town Halls as well as a voluntary grief counseling seminar for anyone interested. It's been an emotional experience."

I said, "How was the turnout for the seminar?"

"What difference does that make?"

"Just wondering about student interest."

"Why? So you can interrogate them? Turnout was fine, our people are doing well. All things considered. Or they were until two men were spotted--"

"Lurking implies underhanded," said Milo. "We stood right out in the open and to my eye none of the kids seemed bothered."

Mary Jane Rollins fingered eyeglasses hanging from a chain. "With all due respect to the acuity of your eye, Lieutenant, you created stress and bother. Now, if there's nothing more--"

"You're not curious why we're here, Dr. Rollins?"

"I've too many things on my plate for idle curiosity."

Walkowicz rolled his eyes. Rollins sensed something and pivoted toward him. By the time their gazes met, the guard had returned to stoic immobility. But when Rollins faced us again, his mouth flirted with mirth.

Milo said, "We need to talk to one of your students. The intention was to find him before he entered the school grounds. To
minimize
disruption."

"A student? Who?"

"Martin Mendoza."

Silence.

"He is a student here, Doctor?"

"Why do you want to talk to him?"

"We didn't see him enter. Did he arrive extra-early?"

Rollins's eyes moved past us. Engine noise huffed from the mouth of the drive. Seconds later, a gray Crown Victoria rolled into view, picked up speed, came to an abrupt, tire-squeaking stop. Captain Stanley Creighton got out. Brown suit in place of the cream getup he'd worn at the crime scene.

"Morning, Dr. Rollins, I'll take it from here."

"Thank you, Captain."

She turned to leave. Walkowicz remained in place. Staring at Creighton, a bushy gray eyebrow arced.

Rollins said, "Return to your post, Herb."

"Yes, ma'am." To Creighton: "Captain, ay? Congrats."

Creighton squinted. Nodded. "Herb."

Rollins said, "You know each other?"

Walkowicz said, "Sure, we go back. Right, Stan?"

Before Creighton could answer, Rollins got between them. "How wonderful for you, Officer Walkowicz. Now let's put aside auld lang syne and get back to our respective jobs."

"Yes, ma'am." Saluting conspicuously, Walkowicz followed Rollins as she race-walked up the drive, veered to his booth, and closed the door hard. Putting a little hip-roll into his stride, the cop-waddle that came from a Sam Browne laden with gear.

Milo said, "Old officers don't die, they just sit on their asses and pretend to be useful."

Stan Creighton said, "He was one of my training officers at Central. Then he transferred to Glendale PD and we lost--" His eyes hardened. "What the hell were you thinking, coming up here with no authorization?"

"Working on my improv skills, Stan."

"Cut the shit, man, this is a major problem. What possessed you?"

"A problem for who?"

"Don't play with me," said Creighton. "What was going through your head?"

"I need to talk to a student, I figure school's the logical place to find a student."

"What student?"

"Kid named Martin Mendoza." Milo offered a sketchy summary.

Creighton said, "Kid's got a temper so he's a suspect?"

"I'm open to suggestions, Stan."

"Whatever. The point is even with a student the school's
not
the logical place because the rules were made clear to you. Kids have homes, start there. Now get the hell out of here."

"And here I was thinking a stroll on campus would be educational for all concerned."

"You really have a death wish, don't you?"

Milo smiled. "I'm assuming you're talking metaphor, Stan."

Creighton's pupils were pinpoints. His right eye ticced. "Go.
Now.
"

The elms rustled. From the distance, a girl's laughter sweetened the air.

"You're defying a direct order?"

"Just looking for a shovel so I can dig that grave."